


A Bit of Love In War

by Eleanor_Fenyx



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, F/M, Fighter Pilot AU, Historical AU fic, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mike Stamford - Freeform, Military!lock, Military!lock AU, RFC, Sherlock AU, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Soldier!lock, WWI AU, WWI AU fic, sebastian moran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:10:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleanor_Fenyx/pseuds/Eleanor_Fenyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WWI AU in which John and Sherlock are two of the best pilots the British Army has ever known despite starting out at the tender ages of nineteen and 'eighteen' (read: seventeen), respectively. This fic follows the journey from John's perspective from basically the beginning of the war all the way through the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boys Playing At Being Men

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm a total history buff but of course I'm going to make mistakes. If something seems to be not quite right, please let me know and I'll do what I can to fix it to make everything seem more genuine and authentic :) Thanks so much.

_1914_

 

John couldn’t help but feel a sense of importance as he looked up at the old brick buildings of the campus, a brisk breeze pushing at his back and sending his leather jacket fluttering about his hips just the smallest bit. There came the sound of whining engines on that stiff breeze, harmonising with the sounds of wind whistling and sudden chugs of metal, accompanied dimly by the shouts of men. He was going to be a pilot.

By now, it was every man’s duty to serve his country if he could, and John Watson, son of Reginald Watson, had decided that if he was to do his family proud (and stay alive while doing it) that his best bet was to become a pilot, and he’d immediately joined the RFC. While he knew that it was still dangerous, of course, in his young, boyish mind there was still that thrill of adventure, the promise of glory and honour that had sent droves of his peers to the trenches ahead of him already, though he was still one of the first waves of volunteers. News came from across the Channel, of course, but it wasn’t enough to deter John, nor many of his friends either. It was war, there were deaths in war. It was a given, it was understood. Why should that preclude young, healthy men from going out and fighting for their country? It shouldn’t, not at all, and so John had headed out, barely heeding his parents’ warnings and the entreaties of his typically hostile sister that he stay safe.

They needn’t have worried, John knew, he would always come home to them. Always.

John hitched his duffel further up his shoulder and quickly ran to catch up with the group of men (boys) he’d arrived with in a lorry that had toted them all from their home villages and towns and even a few polished boys from the city, and together they all tramped along a well-trodden dirt road toward a building that seemed to be squatting among the others, seemingly a new addition, that was plainly marked with ‘ADMISSIONS’ above the door in stark white paint, and John figured it should’ve hit home that he was a military man, but not even the heavy canvas uniform encasing his body in a shell could do that and dampen his spirits, and this building was much the same.

Each of the men was assessed again, their papers inspected, and assigned both a barrack and everything that went with it – platoon, class, leader, the whole bit, and there was an undeniable buzz of excitement from the boys playing at being men, and a decidedly less enthused atmosphere emanating from the men instructing them.

The easy attitude continued to hum between the lot of them as they settled efficiently into their bunks, unpacking their regulation duffels with a mere modicum of the efficiency they would later obtain, though of course the fact that they were all chattering and laughing amongst themselves didn’t make the process go any faster whatsoever. There were a few clashing personalities already, of course, but that was to be expected when one filled a relatively small barrack with a couple dozen rowdy boys itching to see a fight, to experience the thrill that they’d been assured a fight was, none of them aware of how they’d been completely and utterly lied to by their superiors. Their strength, their brawn, and their ability to follow orders was needed, and at the moment that was all that mattered.

 

The easy camaraderie lasted for a couple of weeks even through the hard physical training that was positively draining on the city boys and a bit of a relief for the farmer/country boys who were used to long days in the fields and in the barns, tending to everything that needed tending under the tutelage of their fathers.

But after those happy few weeks, that buzz of youthful excitement and wonder at being important and useful was shattered, their group illusion dispelled by the harsh shock of red blood dripping from a mangled body in a tree, the metal skeleton of a ‘plane wrapped around one of the large trees at the edge of the practice airfield.

He’d been popular, a guy the rest of the class looked toward to constantly have a witty retort, a clever remark, anything at all to keep them all in good spirits. He’d been the first to die. But not the last.

As they got stronger, their bodies toughening up to the workload pressed on them and then toughening some more, and they all spent more and more time up in the air, wrestling with the jerking and shuddering metal beast they were directing from inside, more and more boys, mere children, were lost to the war before they could even see it. Aeroplanes crashed and burned, bodies found themselves wrapped around trees or joysticks, rammed through with sharp and unyielding bits of metal they should have commanded as easily as their own bodies.

There was something that hadn’t been properly conveyed to them, and they all knew it though none would dare to bring it up even amongst each other, let alone to one of their stern-faced superiors. Flying was bloody dangerous, and could be deadly just as often as not. The rattletrap planes they were taught to fly gave out just as much as they flew beautifully, and as such young, inexperienced pilots, most errors could not be corrected before the pilot-to-be came to a crashing and horrific death.

Of the 300 boys who had volunteered their lives to their country, John Watson graduated six months after their arrival with 187 of his peers, each of them standing proudly but sombrely to receive their honours and be given their assignments to be fulfilled after a week of leave to return home for a bit of rest and recuperation before they were sent out across the Channel.

John’s arrival home was met with tears from his mother and sister and quiet pride from his father, and a week later he was on his way to France, reviewing his papers and his assignments, feeling a selfish flash of relief that he was assigned to a command that was meant to be an intelligence agency, flying above everything to send directives to the men on the ground, tell them the formations of the enemy and direct where to hit the hardest. They were reconnaissance men, not fighters, and John was immensely relieved, though that relief faded when he was near the front lines, on the base that would be his home for the foreseeable future, and he was greeted with the steady thunder of shell blasts.

 

\-----

_1915_

“Oi Watson! You up for a bit of adventure?” Mike Stamford asked, poking his head into John’s tent where the man was getting some much needed relaxation, stretched out on his thin cot and sketching idly in the margins of a book that his mum had sent to him with the last small care package.

“What did you have in mind?” John idly asked the mechanic/photographer/gunman who couldn’t fly a plane to save his own skin, not looking up from the dark strokes of his pencil on the cheap paper.

“Nothing much. Top man wants a bit of reconnaissance done, heard a rumour that the Germans are moving closer and he wants me to go up and get some pictures of their camp, see if we can’t prove the rumours right or wrong, but we both know I’m a horrid pilot. Come on, John, let’s go,” Stamford said impatiently, smiling his most winning smile at John. Stamford was clearly a city-boy still, even after his physical training, but he had the sort of goofy charm that most women couldn’t resist and he employed it even on his comrades, using his affability to get what he wanted. John took one look at the hopeful look on his eager face and he sighed good-naturedly, clapping the book shut with the pencil to mark his place and standing up with a small groan, shaking his head as Stamford clapped him on the back in satisfaction.

“Meet me down by Gertie, alright? I’ll get ‘er started up for you since I can at least do that much,” Stamford laughed, ducking back out of the tent to head down the camp to the airstrip where his prized plane was waiting, perched in a covered hangar, awaiting a pilot to take her up into the sky. John was at least grateful that he’d be flying with Stamford as the man was a bloody good mechanic, knew his ‘planes inside and out and could know them at a glance, could fix any problem in record time, and with John’s skilled hands at the helm, Stamford’s planes, run-down as the models were, would soar through the air with the ease of a bird more than the chugging and chattering of the rest of the metal death traps that were oh-so-necessary in this bloody stupid war.  
  


John sighed as he shrugged into his jacket and picked up his helmet containing the crackly radio intercom that buzzed and rattled just a little bit less than the others’ did since he’d had Mike take a look at its machinery as well since he’d won a bet, and the man had been able to fix it up just enough to be noticeable. John slipped his goggles onto his forehead and trotted out of his tent toward the runway were he could already hear Gertie’s engine growling and John just chuckled good-naturedly, amazed at how quickly Stamford could always start up one of his temperamental beasts.

“Alright, Stamford, let’s get this over with,” John shouted over the roar of the engine, hopping up on the wing and swinging gracefully into the pilot’s seat in front of where Mike was already waiting for him, the clunky camera cradled in his lap, the plane’s gun loaded and ready to fire should they encounter any trouble. “Moran’s got hold of a dance record from somewhere and he’s dredged up one of the men’s gramophone, I heard we’re all going to get smashed and pretend like we all know how to dance,” John said as he belted himself in and checked the instruments, hearing Stamford laughing behind him

“Well perhaps you country bumpkins can’t dance, but I can assure you that all of us city boys are satisfyingly light on our feet!” Stamford called back good-naturedly and John  just chuckled, though he didn’t respond as he suddenly needed to focus on keeping the ‘plane in check as he started down the runway, a few heads poking out of tents from the camp to see who in the world would be up flying on everybody’s day off.

John got the only slightly rickety ‘plane up to proper speed and pulled her up at the last moment, enjoying – as he did every time he flew, no matter what – that tug in his gut that told him that he was above the bonds of the earth and that for a while at least he didn’t really have to obey gravity as everybody else did. Not quite. It was glorious, and every time John flew, he never wanted to head back down.

John let himself enjoy the flight for a moment as he headed toward the area Mike conveyed to him through the crackling headset, but once they were there it was a different story, and John’s happy mood slipped into something perilously close to melancholy as he sobered right up and focused on flying high enough that they wouldn’t be noticed right away and so that they could get a good view of both camps, both enemy and friend.

Deep gashes, the ugly wounds of the trenches, cut across the levelled forest, outlining the borders of the no man’s land in between, and well back behind each trench was the silent and still camp of either side, the German’s on one, the French/English allies on the other. There were men down there in the trenches, small specks of brown on darker brown from John’s lofty vantage point, barely discernible but for the movements of some of them making their way through the slopping April mud that was most likely full of all manner of ghastly things if the rumours the PBI’s spread were to be believed.

John shivered at the thought of his comrades down there in the cold and wet that resulted in far too many cases of flesh rotting and inflammation of wounds for anybody’s comfort, but he forced himself to pay attention to the plane, feeling the way it was moving under his command to make sure that nothing unexpected was going to happen and wreck the reconnaissance mission. John could hear Mike fumbling with the camera behind him and he did his best to fly smoothly, getting looping slowly near the German forces (staying in their own airspace, of course), well out of the range of their guns and far enough away that he and Mike wouldn’t be suspected of anything much besides a normal patrol, and he stayed low and slow, giving Mike the best opportunity he could.

But even John could tell that the German forces had shifted since the day before when he’d been flying this very same patrol route, and it wasn’t comforting. Everyone had of course been hoping that the German’s might retreat as they were suffering heavier casualties than they were inflicting, but judging by the amount of distance the camp had covered in the last twenty four hours, there was something the German’s were hiding, and John was afraid that it was more men that had been deliberately kept out of the fighting. And the camp was closer to the front line than before, meaning that the Germans were moving in.

“John?” Stamford said cautiously into the intercom and John just nodded mechanically.

“Yes I see them,” John responded gravely. “And I wish I didn’t. Have you got enough evidence? I want to get back to camp and tell Captain Moran what’s going on,” John continued.

“Yes. Let’s go back, I’ve got enough. He needs to know as soon as possible.”

Without hesitation, John turned the ‘plane back towards their own airbase a few miles back from the front line camp, and he pushed the poor aeroplane as much as he could, the engine whining in protest as he pushed her faster and then slowed her down, bringing her in for a smooth but fast landing on the airstrip a few minutes later, almost going too fast for the relatively short runway.

As soon as the ‘plane came to a halt, John killed the engine and unbuckled himself from the confines of the straps holding him in the rattling death trap contraption, jumping out to the ground as soon as he was free, some of the other mechanics coming out to taxi the plane back into the hangar as Stamford joined him on the ground and they immediately headed off to Captain Moran’s tent with clear purpose in their steps. There was a stir of interest behind them as they walked through the camp, the men wondering what could have made the two typically jovial boys look so grave as their boots thumped heavily against the ground, but neither of them stopped to explain. Everybody would know soon enough.

 

Needless to say, the Captain was…dismayed to hear of the new German formation. Rumours from the PBI were not always reliable, and this was clearly one rumour that would have been far better to have been proven false rather than true. Nobody wanted to hear that the enemy forces were most likely larger than anticipated as well as on the move toward their lines, bringing up reinforcements from the back where nobody was expecting there to be any.

“Alright you two, go back to your tents and try to relax. I’ll send off a few missives, see who I can communicate with. You two may have just saved quite a few lives, you should be proud. Once you leave, I need one of you to find Holmes and send him to me. Dismissed.”

John and Mike saluted the Captain before heading out of the tent, both of them standing on the path for a moment, just absorbing the idea that things were probably about to get very ugly. Perhaps not for them directly, but they both had friends, comrades, and brothers-in-arms out there in the trenches, even if they didn’t know many of them personally, and it was awful to think about what was about to befall them. But, perhaps, thanks to their warning, the Germans could be fired upon when they were expecting to have surprise on their side and the losses wouldn’t be so heavy as if they hadn’t gone up to investigate. Stamford retreated after a minute or two to go attempt to develop his photos, leaving John to seek out the most intelligent man in the camp, one Sherlock Holmes.

He went to the man’s tent and was slightly relieved to hear the slight sounds of a violin being quietly tuned from inside as he wasn’t really interested in hunting down the elusive and eccentric man from London who, despite his military training, had retained a distinctly reedy and high-class look about him, accentuated in his elongated and sharp facial features and the way he conducted himself in a somewhat…pompous manner when the company wasn’t on the march or doing drills. John took a deep breath and knocked on the centre pole of the tent and he was bid a lazy ‘enter’ that sounded slightly irritated.

John pushed aside the heavy flap of canvas and stepped into a tent that was even starker than his own, with nothing decorating it but little bits of planes that seemed to be in the process of being delicately repaired as well as just a couple books, though the man also seemed to have some questionable mixtures of solutions and substances sitting around precariously on the standard-issue crates they were all given as ‘bedside tables’, though that was a thoroughly generous term, as well as the chairs and the one flimsy table that dominated one side of the tent.

John cleared his throat a bit and focused on the man stretched lazily out on his cot, a battered violin tucked under his chin – how the man managed to keep that thing in decent condition in this weather, John would never know. “Captain Moran wants you in his tent as soon as possible,” John informed the man, feeling oddly uncomfortable, as if he was under an intense scrutiny.

“Ah so the German’s have done something unexpected, have they?” Holmes asked shrewdly and John almost jumped, though he figured that wouldn’t be a difficult assumption to make.

“As a matter of fact they have,” John informed the man and he tried not to sound as worried as he felt.

“And my intelligence is required as the good Captain has no clue what’s to be done?” Sherlock asked, and John forced himself not to get even mildly annoyed at the condescending tone of the other man’s question that clearly implied his opinion of Moran’s capabilities as Captain.

“I don’t know, I’m simply following orders.”

“Hm. Dull. Alright, get out,” Sherlock said briskly, standing up from his cot in one fluid movement, the laziness gone from his limbs as he quickly but gracefully slipped his uniform on over his normal clothes, getting dressed with ruthless efficiency as they all could. John suddenly remembered that Sherlock had told him to get out so he rolled his eyes and left the tent, hearing Sherlock emerge quickly a moment later to hurry up the small lane through the centre of the camp to Moran’s tent, his slow and seemingly nonchalant attitude gone to be replaced by concise movements that oddly did something to help soothe John’s worried nerves as he heard the quick, sure footsteps receding behind him.

As John returned to his own tent and laid down on his bed, he found himself dwelling on Holmes as he hadn’t ever really bothered to before. At first glance, when John had seen the boy at their flight school, there hadn’t seemed to be anything unusual about Holmes besides his obvious disdain for others and the thin, reedy quality to his body that perfectly hid the sinewy strength that just about everybody had been surprised to see in the haughty boy. And upon their joint arrival at the base, though they were the only ones from their class to be sent to this particular base, John had realised that not only was Sherlock surprisingly strong and physically adept, but he was also the most intelligent and clever man John had ever encountered, and he’d never even spoken to the man before.

But eventually his intelligence was the talk of the camp, especially when it was revealed that the man was a pilot, an engineer, a mechanic, a gunman, and an expert at analysing data and information to create a cohesive picture of whatever he was looking at, making him an invaluable member of the command. A jack of all trades, and an expert in each trade at that. It was both incredibly rare and extremely incredible, and John had found himself admiring the man from afar simply for his talents alone, though John was fairly sure that the man wouldn’t care if anybody openly admired him at all. He seemed only to care about his own goals and using his talents in whatever way he was either asked to or whatever way he wanted. He didn’t seek others’ approval. He was an enigma, and John had every respect for the man as he did for Captain Moran, if not just a little bit more.

 

John stayed in bed though he felt like pacing up and down the entire main street through the camp, his nerves jangling in his body and telling his legs that he needed to be up and doing something. As the afternoon was just beginning to wane, the light through his canvas tent dimming, John was startled but the sudden entrance of somebody into his tent thought there had been no warning or announcement that anybody was there. John sat up abruptly, every nerve ending on fire, his mind alert for trouble, and he was frustrated when he saw that it was just Sherlock, looking as calm as ever. John ground his teeth for a moment and ignored his surge of nervous energy, standing up and putting his hands in his pockets.

“Can I help you?” he asked as Sherlock had yet to say anything.

“As a matter of fact, you can,” Sherlock replied to John’s surprise and he nodded a bit, though he didn’t comment. “You were the one flying the aeroplane when Stamford took his reconnaissance photographs, yes?” Sherlock asked and again, John nodded.

“Yes, I was,” John replied and he watched Sherlock nod absently.

“Tell me what you saw,” Sherlock commanded and John raised an eyebrow at him, staying silent. Sherlock looked over at him after a moment and stared at him in confusion before sighing and rolling his eyes. “Please,” he said ungraciously, but John didn’t care how he said it.

“We were looking after a rumour that came from the PBI lines a few miles south, one that wasn’t really supposed to be feasibly true but that was worth looking into anyway, and upon doing a large sweep, Mike and I both noticed that the German camp, that was a bit larger than it should be for the force they were putting on the field, had moved quite a distance closer to the lines, when just yesterday during my evening patrol they had been far enough away that it seemed as if they were heading away from these lines to head deeper into their own territory. They moved the entire camp a good…three miles overnight, and it is now believed that the Germans now have a larger force held in reserve that they are planning to put in the field against our men, who, as I’m sure you know, have almost no reserves at the moment as they were deployed elsewhere along the front about a week ago. That’s it, after we saw the camp we came back to inform Captain Moran of the change.”

John was honestly surprised that Sherlock had stayed silent throughout his entire analysis as the man was notorious for interrupting and correcting, but instead he’d stayed silent and slouched down into the chair John had managed to scavenge out of somewhere, his palms pressed together in a praying position, his fingers pressed to his lips as he listened. When John had finished talking, Sherlock nodded slowly to show that he’d heard but he didn’t say anything, and John watched him curiously for a moment before retreating back to his bed to sit on the edge, facing Sherlock and waiting for him to talk.

“Your warning, given in such a timely manner, is going to save the lives of a good number of the PBI’s out there in the trenches, Watson,” Sherlock finally said and John breathed a small sigh of relief. “One of the duties of the Royal Flying Corps, as we are all well aware, is to direct artillery fire, and now several messengers have already been dispatched to the camp at the trenches to inform the Captain there as well as some of his important subordinates that they are in danger from renewed German attacks and that they should be guarding themselves from all sides as we are as of yet unaware of the German’s strategy. I highly doubt they will send their precious reserves into the trenches to be picked off like the rest of the men fighting out there, I suspect an ambush of some sort, some kind of attempt to sneak around in an attempt to get at the camp, perhaps, while the men in the trenches storm our fighting forces. All possible outcomes with the current evidences have been relayed to the commanders in the field, and they will be on guard for the foreseeable future until the attack comes, and they will be thoroughly prepared to meet the Germans as the force that was sent further down the front is being called back as well to help deal with this surprisingly large unsuspected addition to the German forces.

“You and I are going to be going up on a dawn patrol tomorrow morning to attempt to further guess the movements of the German forces, Watson, and we will be continuing this patrol for the day, until we lose the light, only returning to the base for fuel and a short meal at noon. This is not up for discussion, as per the orders of the Captain. Your flying skills, as well as your keen eye, and my intelligence are required to increase the knowledge given to the soldiers directly invested in the upcoming conflict. While naturally it is possible for me to both fly the plane and look for information, both jobs will be done more reliably with one set of hands at each. I will see you at dawn in the hangar nearest the camp, we will be taking one of my small aeroplanes up into the air so that we may stay aloft longer in the smaller craft, using less fuel, as well as to appear unthreatening to the German forces who may fire on us if we are seen as intended gunmen. There is a gun mounted to the plane, but it is painfully short range and only to be fired in the most dire of circumstances. Is this all understood?”

John was honestly just a little floored at the amount of information that had just been thrown at him in such clipped, quick tones as Sherlock used, and it was taking a moment for his mind to catch up with everything, but he was able to know that his and Stamford’s information had thankfully been received in time to hopefully avoid the major casualties the Germans were expecting to inflict, and that his services were being required again, though this time he would go up with Sherlock, not Mike, which was slightly odd, though not too awful as John had flown with many different mechanics before, and Sherlock was rumoured to be the best in the camp, even just a little above Stamford. So after a moment of consideration, John nodded resolutely and levelled his gaze with Sherlock’s.

“Understood,” John said shortly and Sherlock seemed to approve of his concise response and the fact that John had made no attempt to further their conversation – the man also happened to be known for being particularly incapable at polite conversation as well as intolerant of anything he saw as unintelligent (which was just about everything, at last count, according to quite a few of the men).

“Excellent. Goodnight then, Watson,” Sherlock said simply and then he stood up, sweeping out of the tent as swiftly as he had entered it, looking for all the world as if he had no time for anybody else.

John just shook his head a bit and laid back on his bed, stretching out and letting the last of his extra tension from the day leech out of his back and shoulders, using the familiar technique of imaging the tension as a sort of mist seeping out of him to slip into the thin mattress beneath him, continuing on into the ground and disappearing. John was sure it sounded ridiculous, but it helped, and by the time it was fully dark outside, John was able to stand up easily to light his dim lamp, carefully shaded on three sides so that it only poured light on his bed so as to keep the tent as dim as possible from the outside, just in case somebody did a fly over of the camp in the night – everybody’s lanterns did the same thing, and some men didn’t even bother to light them some nights, so that every night there was always a section or two of the camp that was completely dark from dusk until dawn.

There was no party after dinner that night, none of the men having felt comfortable with dancing and drinking a bit and having a good time when there were German forces moving toward their allies every second they could do so, and besides, an air raid was becoming something of a possibility with new rumours of German fighter ‘planes being built and deployed to the front, though so far there was no reliable evidence that the German side possessed anything more technologically advanced than what the Allied forces could bring to the field. It was a small comfort, though.

 

At dawn, John shivered a bit in his uniform as he made his way toward the hangars by the airstrip, yawning hugely, the light breeze carrying away the wisps of his breath away on the chilly, morning spring air. Everything was hushed, everything was blue and grey in the dim light, and John fought down another yawn as he approached the designated hangar, his steps never faltering despite his bone-deep tiredness. Despite the fact that nobody had partied the night before, John had had trouble getting to sleep, and he was definitely paying for it now at this ungodly hour, though really it wasn't that much earlier than he'd normally get up for his typical patrols. John approached the hangar and glanced inside, searching for Sherlock. He found the man tinkering around with a ‘plane near the entrance to the hangar, clearly the one John was going to piloting as she was smaller than the rest, clearly meant for either easier control or stealth, either one.

“Mornin’,” John greeted groggily as he approached the other man who was covered in axel grease and dried mud, or something that looked like it.

“Indeed it is, thank you for your observation,” Sherlock drawled lazily from underneath the plane before shimmying away from the underbelly so he could stand up straight and John was briefly impressed at the grace of the man yet again. “Are you prepared to fly or do I need to be the pilot for the first few hours of the morning while you wake up further? I will not have you crash my plane simply because you were unable to sleep last night through your guilt at the fact that you won’t be able to fight,” Sherlock said shortly, using a flannel tugged from his back pocket to clean his hands. John blinked at him in surprise but decided not to ask how he knew that John hadn’t slept – his uncanny ability to figure things out about people was well-known amongst the men of the camp, and John figured that that was what had just happened and he really didn’t feel like getting a lengthy explanation at the moment.

“I’m perfectly fine to fly, I’ve flown on no sleep for over forty-eight hours before. Let’s just get out there,” John said with a mixture of tiredness and eagerness, the first stemming from his sleepless night and the second out of a desire to help the frontline soldiers however he could. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow and scanned an appraising look over him from head to toe before shrugging.

“If you say so,” Sherlock said somewhat sceptically but John didn’t really feel like bothering to snap at him. “Come on, we’ve got to head out shortly. I’ve done some last-minute modifications, it should be smooth flying even better than your friend Stamford’s ‘planes,” Sherlock continued and John couldn’t help but be a bit sceptical that this boy had managed to improve his machines to the same point as Mike, but John didn’t really care. The aeroplanes at his flight school had been falling apart and downright deadly, anything was better than the ‘planes John had learned to fly.

John didn’t respond to Sherlock, instead he just hoisted himself up onto the wing and then into the cockpit, buckling himself in quickly as Sherlock hopped up behind him, not even using the wing as his long, lanky frame allowing him to jump up and catch himself in time to clamber up into the small second seat, though John figured that Sherlock could do even that gracefully if he wanted to.

John started up the ‘plane with ruthless efficiency as Sherlock strapped himself in behind him and then John was taxiing out of the door of the hangar carefully and he was off down the runway, the ‘plane quickly picking up speed and John was able to pull her up into the air with minimal effort far earlier than with any ‘plane he’d ever flown, and then it was a perfect flight, no shuddering, no jerking, and John wasn’t in the least reluctant to admit to himself that this ‘plane was superior to anything Stamford had ever done.

Just like the day before, John allowed himself to thoroughly enjoy those first few moments of flight, the smoothest flight he’d ever piloted by a long shot, but as soon as the German camp was in sight John sobered again, and he did his best to provide Sherlock with the best views. John would have thought that it would be boring to stare the encampment for hours until lunch, but every so often John would look at Sherlock over his shoulder and he seemed to be completely engrossed in whatever was going on down there on the ground.

They returned to the camp a little before noon and John and Sherlock immediately headed for Captain Moran’s makeshift office, the two of them hurrying side by side through the camp. By now everybody knew what Sherlock and John were doing and so they made way for them on the path, knowing that their information was absolutely vital to give to the Captain as soon as possible.

When John and Sherlock reached the office ‘building’ – if that term could really be applied to the tent with a slatted wooden floor – there was lunch waiting for them. They both saluted the Captain quickly and then were immediately offered food, though John protested for a moment before Moran insisted that their information could wait for another minute or two while they ate.

John and Sherlock both ate a few bites of food, just enough to hold them over and give them the energy to talk, and then each of them launched into their own accounts of what they saw, with John going first as his would be the broader and less detailed of the two stories since he’d been focused on flying the plane. As Sherlock spoke, John continued eating unobtrusively whilst marvelling at the staggering amount of information that Sherlock had been able to discover simply by staring at the German camp for hours. He’d gotten an estimate of everything from how many extra troops there were in the reserve camp to how long it would take them to reach the front lines, and he delivered it all with an air of complete assurance and calm that John slightly envied but mostly just admired. His tone was matter of fact and straight to the point, and it was easy to see why he was, without a doubt, the best intelligence agent within in the camp, perhaps even within all of France.

When Sherlock had finished speaking, he took a couple more bites of the somewhat unsatisfying food offered to them as Moran took careful notes and dispatched messages to several important others around the camp, giving John and Sherlock a moment to rest before returning his attention back to them.

“Gentlemen, your information and your skills are utterly invaluable to the safety of the men on the front lines. Please accept my fervent thanks as well as the gratitude of those whose lives you are saving at the front. I am expecting you to return to your aerial post for the remainder of the afternoon, but with the information you have given me thus far I can imagine that it would be alright if you would prefer to take a break from flying and observing to instead relax. It’s up to you.”

John and Sherlock looked to each other and with one look they knew exactly what to do, though now it was John who spoke.

“We will fly, of course. Any information we can give is helpful at this point, and we’ve been relaxing since yesterday. A day of easy work will certainly not be ill thought of.” John could see Sherlock nodding in agreement beside him and he pleased himself with the thought that the Captain looked…proud of John’s answer.

“Well, excellent. Your information will most certainly be welcome. I expect a report back at dusk. Dismissed.”

John and Sherlock stood up and immediately snapped to attention, saluting Captain Moran before turning and marching from the office, relaxing again only once they were outside.

“How did you find all of that out just by looking at the camp?” John asked Sherlock curiously as they slowly made their way back to the airstrip, taking their time now that their information had been imparted and they had a moment to slow down. “I glanced down there quite a few times for myself but I couldn’t find anything that seemed useful, not anything like what you told Captain Moran. How did you know all of that?” John continued, staring up at the rather taller man in a mixture of awe and confusion.

Sherlock, for his part, seemed to be somewhat confused himself by John’s question and John suddenly wondered if it was stupid of him to have asked, so he looked forward again, his cheeks just a little pink, and he started trying to figure out how to word his next sentence to retract his question, but then Sherlock was answering him and though John was embarrassed by the thought that the answer to his question was probably obvious, he was also grateful that Sherlock had decided to answer him after all, even if it was an idiotic question.

“You see, but perhaps you do not observe, John Watson. I for one happened to notice the fact that each tent had not one, or even two, but _three_ men going to and from, as evident in some of the men’s different walking patterns that I could fortunately make out whenever you got low enough in the ‘plane for me to notice certain distinctions. There were other evidences, such as the amount of supplies in the trucks that entered shortly before we returned to camp, which only cemented my theory that there must be, at most, triple the force that should be present. The cook tent, also, seemed to be getting started extremely early after breakfast for luncheon, implying that there was quite a bit of food to prepare, far more than the far that was to normally be used to feed a force of the size they were attempting to give the illusion of. There are other indicators, of course, that would be better to give me an idea of the size of the approaching force, but I would have to actually infiltrate the camp or get close enough to thoroughly observe certain things, and that is simply not feasible at the present time. I am, however, quite sure in the estimations I gave to Captain Moran. As for the time it will take them to reach the front lines, that was simple to gauge upon factoring in the sheer volume of men they are attempting to move across the countryside in secret as well as the amount of supplies they will be bringing. Simple.”

John stopped under the shadow of the wing of the ‘plane and for a moment he was only able to stare hard at Sherlock, wondering just how the bloody hell he’d managed to get stuck in a pilot’s position when he could’ve so easily been a spy of some sort or an office, anything that would require more thought than what it took to fly an aeroplane.

“That…That was amazing,” John said incredulously, seeming to startle an equally incredulous look from the young man he was praising.

“Was it?” Sherlock asked in surprise and John just stared at him wide-eyed for another half of a second before nodding once resolutely.

“By God of course it was!” John exclaimed, his voice still surprised though now it contained more hints of his awe and admiration for what Sherlock seemed to be capable of doing so easily.

“That’s..Well..thank you,” Sherlock said hesitantly, his usually careless, debonair charm and cold manners falling away slightly to reveal a gawky, gangly, awkwardly shy teenager who was unused to receiving compliments, and the change was utterly startling though John had the good sense not to comment on it.

“My pleasure,” John replied with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Now, shall we go see what else the beastly Germans have gotten themselves into? I doubt you’ll miss anything of importance at all after that display, I’m anxious to hear what they’re going to do next,” John continued with another smile, pleased to see a small one twitch at one corner of Sherlock’s mouth in return.

“Of course, what else are we good for?” Sherlock asked so wryly that even John could tell he was attempting to joke and so he chuckled appreciatively before swinging himself up into the cockpit, Sherlock following shortly afterward, and then they were off again, ready to seek out more information that could be relayed to their superiors to save the lives of hundreds of their less fortunate comrades out in the trenches.

 

Over the next few weeks, John went out just about every day with Sherlock Holmes, and together, through a combination of wit, intelligence, quick-thinking, and the flight expertise of the both of them, they managed to save the men in the trenches from being decimated and with their information an easy victory was snatched away from the hands of the Germans to be placed prettily in the hands of the Allies, and through that cause the two men seemed to bond deeply, an easy camaraderie building up slowly but surely between the two of them until, finally, a month and a half after that initial dawn flight, John, at least, could reliably say that he would be prepared to kill or be killed for the brilliant mechanic/intelligence agent/pilot that he shared his days with first out of necessity and then slightly out of preference.

And though John knew that it was an awful idea to get attached to a fellow soldier as such a deep friend, it also felt totally and utterly unavoidable, and Sherlock had even hesitantly expressed a similar though one evening in the cockpit of the plane as they’d been returning to the camp, leading John to believe that he wasn’t certifiably mad but that he was, in fact, always meant to be friends with Sherlock Holmes.

And he couldn’t find it in himself to mind a bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, before you guys say anything, yes there are probably quite a few things that I'm going to get wrong historically. You'll see as you read, and I'll beg for forgiveness at the end of the chapter.

“John wake up!”

John groaned quietly and rolled over away from the front of his tent, some small part of him hoping that if he just ignored Sherlock that he’d go away.

“John, you agreed to this. Come on!” Sherlock reminded him, coming up behind him and trying to shake him awake, forcing John to try to bat his hands away in vague annoyance.

“Jesus, don’t you ever _sleep_?”  John grumbled and he just heard Sherlock sigh heavily in impatience behind him.

“No, now get up, we’ve got training to do,” Sherlock urged, throwing John’s uniform on top of him in an attempt to get him to get up and start getting dressed.

“Sherlock, it’s not even dawn yet. Go to bed,” John replied petulantly and he heard Sherlock sigh again.

“We’ve got a new shipment of ‘planes coming in soon and you do realise that the new ‘planes are fighters, right? We’re getting _fighter aeroplanes_ , and none of us are trained on them! You and I need to get out there and start training offensive manoeuvres as soon as possible to be ready to train in the new ‘planes as soon as they get here, which I know you’re fully aware of so get up!”

“Sherlock, I’m not flying offensive manoeuvres with you in the dark and I’m certainly not doing it when I’m exhausted from all the flying we did yesterday. That’s how accidents happen, and I’m not becoming a statistic just for your scrawny arse. So go back to bed, or sit down in here, but for God’s sakes keep quiet, I’m trying to sleep.”

John shifted a little bit on his bed to get more comfortable as he heard Sherlock sigh in defeat, but then he stiffened just a little in surprise as Sherlock’s long frame flopped down onto his narrow bed behind him, and he forced himself to blink his eyes open blearily.

“Joining me?” he asked drily and he felt Sherlock’s chuckle where their backs were pressed together.

“Long walk back to my tent and I’ve no interest in sitting in your rickety chair. Now stop talking, you’re trying to sleep,” Sherlock snickered and John just smirked crookedly before settling in and closing his eyes, almost immediately falling asleep again as his body was positively exhausted from the day before, when Sherlock had had both of them going through drills from dawn to dusk with only one break for food. Nobody had thought it strange, though, as the Germans were getting more and more aggressive in their attacks at the front lines, and everybody knew that the flight regiments were about to move from being reconnaissance and strategy to fighter pilots, and everybody was on edge, the camp humming with nervous energy that, unfortunately, seemed to be leading to more accidents in the air than ever before.

When John woke up it was about two hours later and Sherlock was perfectly still behind him, though John had learned from experience that that didn’t mean he was inactive at all – in fact, it usually meant that Sherlock’s mind was racing so quickly that he couldn’t spare a thought for physical movement. John took a deep breath and groaned quietly as he ran a hand through his hair just as he heard the wake up call echoing through the camp and he nudged Sherlock with his elbow, not bothering to turn over to get his attention.

“Yes I hear it,” Sherlock replied quietly before rolling into a sitting position in one second and to his feet in the next, his movements as lithe and graceful as ever and John was slightly envious as he flopped onto his back and scrubbed at his face slowly before he dragged himself to a sitting position. John leaned over to shove his cold feet into his boots unceremoniously while Sherlock stood in the middle of the tent and practically hummed with the sort of thoroughbred energy that he always did, his entire presence screaming ‘high strung’ at all hours of the day and night.

“Calm down, Sherlock,” John yawned as he stood up and shrugged into the jacket of his uniform, having decided to just sleep in the trousers and the undershirt. “We’ll just do morning check and I’ll grab some food from the mess and then we’ll be off, I promise.”

“Something’s different, John,” Sherlock said distractedly, heading toward the tent flaps to poke his head out and look around before he pulled back inside and paced a few times anxiously, his hands scrubbing through his hair in aggravation and John just sighed as he moved over to the water basin in the corner of his tent to make a vague attempt at cleaning his teeth, shaving, and rinsing his face, though there wasn’t really much he could do as they hadn’t received any new supplies in a while and they were all almost out of commodities like shaving cream, brushes, and razors that were sharp enough to actually do anything except irritate the skin and leave nicks but somehow manage to miss all the hair.

 “What’s so different, then, since it’s eating away at you?” John asked as he looked at Sherlock in the dingy mirror and the man just waved him off in irritation.

“I don’t _know_. There have been men running back and forth through the camp all night and into this morning, you didn’t hear it, you were too deeply asleep, but there have been missives and messages being run to the Captain throughout the night, and I don’t like the feel of it. Somebody’s making a move but I don’t know if it’s us or –“

John never got to hear what Sherlock’s speculations were as a moment later there was a deafening blast and they were both suddenly in motion, tearing out of the tent and looking around frantically for the source of the sound, though it was fairly obvious what was going on as the sound of heavy ‘planes nearly deafened them in the next second.

“Raid!” Sherlock shouted, having to grab John and yank him close to be heard over the sound of another shell blasting across the sprawling camp. “Go! Go! Go! Get to the hangar!” Sherlock yelled next, shoving at John and then the two were in motion again, sprinting through the camp to the airstrip, running flat out for the hangar where, thankfully, their ‘planes from the day before were waiting right at the front of the line up, fully fuelled and already checked for any defects as Sherlock had wanted to be prepared to immediately get into the air the next morning. The preparation served them well now.

There was no time for any sort of planning as they cranked up the ‘planes and swung up into the pilot’s seats, no time to find gunmen to join them before they were taxiing down the runway in turns, John going up first to be followed as soon as possible by Sherlock. John had a thought to click on the crackling radio set in his helmet once he'd manhandled his aeroplane up into the air with a screaming engine and he heard Sherlock’s voice immediately, crackling and barely intelligible, though by now John was well used to communicating in broken sentences with Sherlock.

“John! We have no….bulky and cumbersome…Evasive! Evasive manoeuvres, John!” Sherlock shouted and John understood well enough – no guns, German ‘planes bulky, not built for stealth flying as theirs were as the German freighter planes were meant to carry heavy firepower, and John needed to start his and Sherlock’s evasive routine immediately.

“Got it! Out!” John said in a rush before heading yanking his ‘plane around to start heading toward one of the big, dark, hulking monsters that was over the camp and he saw Sherlock doing the same in front of him, their ‘planes screaming toward each other as they forced the machines to do things they were technically never meant to do but could handle thanks to Sherlock’s extensive working and re-working on the engines and mechanics.

John felt his heartbeat in his ears as his trail was picked up by the German pilots that were suddenly behind him, John having swept in under them at a faster clip than their machines could manage, but that didn’t keep them pursuing him and John couldn’t help but feel a surge of pure terror and energy as he heard the rapid fire of bullets from several guns aimed at him. The second John was out of the range of the camp, he was aiming for the ground and the Germans followed him, hell-bent on eliminating him, and John let out a rough and ragged yell as he swept his ‘plane up from the ground at the last second, his engine screeching deafeningly in defiant protest.

John didn’t bother to look behind himself as the German ‘plane crashed to the ground beneath him, its remaining firepower igniting in a blinding blast a moment later, seeming to propel John forward as he headed for his next target, Sherlock’s harsh breathing crackling in his ear as he figured his own was in Sherlock’s ear.

“Small force….Won’t…long!” Sherlock crackled raggedly in his ear and John nodded once though he knew that the other man couldn’t see him.

“More fools them,” John said grimly and he could swear he felt Sherlock’s agreement through the unsteady connection they had, but then John’s attention was elsewhere as he was suddenly in range of the next German plane and he had to do a barrel roll to avoid getting strafed. John swore as he fought to get his ‘plane back under control and he happened to catch a glance of Sherlock performing the same manoeuvre John had, running a German down to the ground and pulling out at the last moment to leave his victim behind to slam into the ground in a screech of metal and fire, the shells erupting a moment later to create another fiery element to the grisly crash. John registered all of this in a split second, his mind seeming to be so hyperaware of everything around him that things were almost in slow motion if he focused.

“John!” Sherlock shouted and John’s attention snapped to the other man even as John ducked and weaved as much as he could in the confines of his ‘plane’s abilities to avoid getting shot. “Meet…Halfway! Crash!” Sherlock said frantically and John immediately understood.

“Go for it!” he responded and then Sherlock was flying right for him, a German beast on his tail as they seemed to be on a suicide flight. At the very last second, both men wrenched their ‘planes to the opposite sides and they just barely escaped scraping the bellies along each other. The Germans didn’t fare as well, smashing together in mid-air in a deafening cacophony of tearing metal and bursting shells.

It took John a moment to realise that he was hearing laughter in his ears but there it was, Sherlock’s baritone laughter crackling and popping in his ears as they both flew for their next targets and John just shook his head a little.

“Pull it together, Sherlock,” he said and Sherlock just laughed once more before seeming to get a handle on himself. John had lost sight of his friend but he had bigger things to worry about as he caught sight of a German heading right for him and John immediately darted away, trying to lure the pilot into chasing him. John wondered if it would ever stop working, but apparently not today as the man dropped his last shell before moving to pursue John, and this time John went up, despite Sherlock’s shouted warnings in his ear. Everything went white and John immediately snapped his attention to his instruments, trusting them to tell him that he was still going away from the ground as he fought to keep the ‘plane level and steady in the cloud. There was the sound of staccato gunfire behind him but none of it was even remotely close to John so he figured he’d lost the German ‘plane at least momentarily.

John erupted over the clouds in a brief flash and he immediately levelled out, scanning the clouds beneath him for a sight of the German ‘plane, and it eventually emerged after five minutes of breathless circling and John was quick to keep ascending, hoping to lure in the pilot who seemed to be inexperienced judging by the manoeuvres he was attempting against a smaller and faster ‘plane as well as by how long it had taken him to work his way through the clouds. John knew that it was remarkably dangerous, but he had few options left and so when he’d reached the top altitude he could manage, he let go of the controls with one hand and twisted his body to make a desperate grab for the gun mounted in the back, giving firm yanks to tear it off of its mounting, though he was no match for Sherlock’s craftsmanship. John swore and turned back around to grab the controls, controlling his ‘plane’s descent briefly before reaching for the gun again and this time he just fired at the ‘plane behind him, the shots going wild but somehow, by some miracle, one bullet must have found a mark of some sort as a moment later the ‘plane was dropping out of the sky, engines burning along with the body and John breathed out a relieved sob, his stomach in his throat as his ‘plane dropped.

“John!” Sherlock shouted and John just shook his head.

“No! Shut up!” John replied and he grit his teeth together as he fought for control of his ‘plane that had was having a hard time returning to being on a short leash now that John had let it go. It was a mad descent through the cloud cover with John becoming completely disoriented, and by the time he broke through he was completely dizzy and almost incapable of flying. But he got his bearings quickly, and now that he’d reclaimed most of his control it only took brute strength to return the ‘plane to a semblance of normal flying and John immediately searched for another target. None.

“Sherlock?” he asked brokenly and he heard the other man’s crackling huff of breath.

“Done. The…..gone. Come back.”

John sobbed once and forced himself to start flying back toward the airstrip that was full of pockmarks from blasted shells but that was otherwise fine for a landing.

When John brought the ‘plane to the ground, he nearly lost control again as he’d been unable to slow down properly before hitting the ground, but he managed it, and as soon as the ‘plane had stopped, John was unbuckling himself and yanking his helmet off to leave him free to tumble down to the ground, his entire body shaking so badly that he could hardly see straight. John finally landed ungracefully on his hands and knees and he was sick right there on the runway, his body heaving and trying to expel his guilt and terror and animalistic savagery in one go.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, his voice crystal clear, not the crackling of the radio, and John felt strong hands holding him up as he retched until he was finally finished, everything that could conceivably come out of his body on the ground beneath him. John let Sherlock haul him to his feet to pull him away from the runway, taking him into the hangar as it was the closest building, and then the two of them sank to the ground in a limp heap, John still shaking uncontrollably as Sherlock was completely still and glassy-eyed beside him.

It seemed like days that they sat there before they were found - though in reality it had only been, at most, about ten minutes - and the two of them were aided back into the camp by two soldiers each, both of them deathly silent and frighteningly blank as they were carefully led through the remains of the camp to the infirmary tent that had an air of impermanence about it as it was a hastily erected replacement, and John dimly realised that the main tent must have been destroyed in a shell blast. He hoped absently that the few sick and injured men they'd had were able to make it out all right before the blast.

Once the two men were brought inside, they were gently deposited onto cots and immediately tended to by medics and field nurses, both of their heads turned toward each other, their eyes wide as they stared at each other’s paper-white faces, mouths trembling with terror at the thought that one or both of them could have been easily slaughtered mere minutes before and John had to fight down an urge to reach out for Sherlock and make sure he was really there, that they’d actually both survived for another day.

John twitched as he felt a sharp sting in the crease of his elbow and then everything went mercifully black.

 

\-----

When John came to, the first word that croaked out of his annoyingly dry mouth was utterly predictable, and it seemed, expected.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m here,” came the soothing reply immediately and John blinked a few times as he stared up at dark canvas above him, dim lights coming from shuttered lanterns elsewhere in the tent.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re idiots.”

It was so unexpected, so utterly and completely incongruous with John’s drug-slow thoughts, that John couldn’t help but start laughing, the sound quickly growing into uncontrollable giggles and he heard Sherlock join in. Part of him dimly realised that he was giddy, that he had absolutely nothing to be laughing at and neither did Sherlock, but he couldn’t stop. John curled up on his side and clutched at his middle as he laughed and Sherlock groaned quietly with each gasping breath he managed to suck in, clearly in as much pain as John as they laughed though he just kept going, his laughter seeming to be fuelled by John’s just as much as John’s was fuelled by his.

“Shh, Sherlock,” John laughed as he clapped a hand over his mouth. “We can’t laugh, we’re in a hospital tent,” John said as he looked around and realised where they were and the sight sobered him up almost instantly, the laughter dying from his lips as he sat up abruptly. John looked around briefly to see a nurse rushing over to him from the other end of the long tent and then her hands were pushing on his shoulders and she was shushing him gently.

“It’s alright, you’re safe, everyone is safe. You and Mr Holmes saved the whole camp,” the woman said in a hushed tone as if reciting a prayer and John just turned his head to look incredulously at Sherlock in the bed next to him. The man just shrugged a little and John turned his attention back to the nurse with a puzzled look on his face.

“We did?”

“Of course you did. If you two boys hadn’t gone up and blown up the German 'planes we’d all be a crater in the ground by now,” the woman responded kindly and John just blinked up at her owlishly.

“Right..” he said carefully and the woman tutted a little as she pulled a blanket over him up to his shoulders and then turned to do the same for Sherlock.

“Now you two just get some rest, that's the doctor’s _and_  the Captain’s orders. They’ll send for you when you’ve recovered.” With that the nurse was bustling away to one of her other patients who had started whimpering in pain and John just looked over at Sherlock again.

“I will never scorn training again,” John said quietly and Sherlock nodded just a little bit in his direction. “At least all those god-awful days of nonstop training were worth it,” he added and Sherlock just smirked a little.

“I suppose now is as good a time as any to say ‘I told you so,’ but it somehow seems inappropriate as well,” Sherlock mused and John just rolled his eyes.

“Yeah yeah. Get some sleep, Sherlock. You need it.”

They laid there in silence and John was actually close to drifting off when he heard Sherlock’s quiet voice again.

“John?”

“Mhm?”

“I’m really glad you’re okay. That last manoeuvre you did, going above the cloud cover…That was one of the most idiotic things I’ve ever seen.”

John turned his head to look at Sherlock and the man was looking at him in earnest, looking as if he was remembering the ghost of panic and John smiled reassuringly at him.

“I was in control for everything but the descent. There wasn’t much to be worried about.”

“I saw a burning aeroplane falling toward the ground, and I was terrified that it was you,” Sherlock admitted quietly and John turned on his side to face the man, concern now etched onto his face. “I thought I’d lost you, John. That’s why I tried to contact you shortly after. I can’t describe the relief of hearing you telling me to shut up.”

John smiled just a little at that and he chuckled just a little.

“Sorry about telling you to be quiet. I was in free fall, and there was just no way I would be able to focus on talking to you as well as getting my ‘plane under control,” John said quietly and Sherlock just shook his head a little.

“I know. I saw you once you left the cloud cover. That was bloody brilliant flying, John.”

“Thank you.” A compliment from Sherlock, on his flying, no less, was enough to make John flush with pleasure, a small smile on his lips. “Now come on, go to sleep. We’re both alive and the camp is in the clear. We both need rest,” John said quietly and Sherlock nodded again, though after a moment of hesitation he stretched his arm out, fingers extended, and John immediately understood. He reached out and slipped his hand into Sherlock’s with a distinct feeling of relief and they fell asleep like that, arms extended across the small space between their cots, fingers wrapped tightly around each other’s hand and wrist.

 

\-----

“You are both immensely moronic...And I have you to thank for the safety of our camp,” Captain Moran sighed, his gaze glancing between John and Sherlock standing at attention in front of him in his temporary tent.

“Permission to speak, sir,” John requested and the Captain studied him briefly before waving a hand in acquiescence.

“With all due respect, sir, Sherlock and I were the best choices to go into the air immediately and perform the manoeuvres we did to ensure the safety of the rest of our force. Our aeroplanes were prepared for immediate flight, we were both well rested and fully awake whereas the rest of the camp was in the process of waking, and our extensive practices and training during the last few weeks has ensured that he and I know how the other will behave in the air and why, giving us the best chance of not getting in each other’s way whilst performing these evasive manoeuvres that were our only course of action as we lacked gunmen to shoot down the enemy ‘planes. We were the most logical choice, and so we followed our training and immediately got into the air. We performed dangerous manoeuvres, yes, but I would not like to think that we were moronic in flying yesterday,” John said a little breathlessly as he contradicted the Captain, though Sherlock beside him seemed to practically be radiating agreement at John’s assessment.

“Very well then, Watson, you weren’t morons. You were, however, very reckless and in the future it would be better if you were not quite so impetuous. However, due to the nature of the unexpected attack, I find that I can only commend you on your quick thinking and knowledge of how best to eliminate your targets quickly and efficiently without putting the rest of the camp in unnecessary danger. I did not call you here to punish you for your actions, but rather to thank you.”

Captain Moran stood then and came around his desk to stand in front of each man in turn to solemnly shake their hands, and John looked over at Sherlock in vague shock, though his friend only looked satisfied, not surprised.

“Is there any other business you two would like to address while I have you here?” the Captain asked as he returned to his desk and John glanced at Sherlock, nodding a little and Sherlock looked forward resolutely.

“Permission to speak, sir.”

“Granted.”

“John and I would like to be the first to test fly the new fighter aeroplanes arriving within the week,” Sherlock informed the man and Captain Moran looked taken aback, and then resigned.

“I suppose their shipment here isn’t as secret as it could be,” he sighed and ran a hand through his hair tiredly. “After your display with the raid I feel as if I don’t really have much of a choice. The new ‘planes are a new model and they’ve only undergone a few tests at some flight schools throughout Britain and France. You two are talented, I believe you capable of handling a new craft. Very well, you two will be the first to fly the new ‘planes, and if you can handle them then I will begin to train the rest of the men in them.”

John breathed a small sigh of relief and contained his smile, Sherlock doing the same beside him.

“Anything else to attend to?”

“No sir, I believe that to be all we require,” Sherlock answered formally and Captain Moran nodded.

“Very well. Return to your duties with a reiteration of my gratitude and my promise that you will have your request fulfilled. Dismissed.”

John and Sherlock saluted the Captain and turned on their heels to leave the tent, stopping on the path outside to grin to each other.

“That went far better than expected,” John remarked as he and Sherlock started walking toward the mess tent in the middle of the camp.

“You expected punishment.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. We performed an admirable and life-saving service. Punishing us for saving hundreds of lives would have been immoral and he would have lost favour with the majority of the soldiers under his command, an event that would eventually cost him his rank if the issue remained unaddressed and our punishment rescinded, in which case he would have gone through extensive paperwork and orders for naught. The more logical decision was to simply warn us against future acts of impetuousness and allow us to walk free with no more than a metaphorical slap on the wrist. With that knowledge, I could only deduce that the meeting was to commend us for our service, warn us that to behave the way we did in the future might not be tolerated so easily, and then to grant any minor request we might have as another way for thanking us for eliminating the threat with as much delicacy as we could manage in such circumstances. I expected no trouble.”

John just shook his head a little and tipped his head back to look up at the sky for a moment as he walked beside Sherlock through the camp.

“Where was everyone else, d’you think?” John asked quietly and Sherlock looked over at him briefly.

“You mean why were we not joined by our fellow pilots and gunmen during the attack?” Sherlock clarified and John nodded.

“I know that we weren’t in the air long enough for it to really qualify as a battle, per se, but I would have thought that somebody would have followed us into the air once we were up there. Where were the rest of the pilots?”

“I thought much the same as I came up from running that ‘plane into the ground, and the only conclusion I was capable of coming to was that the rest of the ‘planes, though theoretically ready to fly, were unable to be prepared in time for such an attack. After that the next option would be to use guns and heavy artillery from the ground to shoot at the Germans once they came in range, but due to the nature of our manoeuvres a clear shot would have been next to impossible even with our best gunmen standing by, and so their hands were tied, unprepared to fly up and aid us and unable to shoot down an enemy for fear of striking us. Do not feel betrayed, John, it was simply out of an inability to help at such short notice,” Sherlock replied and John jumped a little, not having realised he’d felt betrayed until Sherlock had told him to stop. John just sighed a little and fell silent, pushing his hands into his pockets as he and Sherlock walked.

When they reached the mess tent, John was shocked to find himself immediately deafened by applause and hoots and cheers, and he looked to Sherlock in confusion only to find the other man looking just as confused as him. John looked forward again just as Mike came up and shook his hand vigorously then Sherlock’s with a wide grin on his face.

“Everyone knows it was you two who went up there yesterday, and every single man here has you to thank for their lives. Come on, somebody managed to dredge up some decent alcohol, and you two are getting the first drinks.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movements of the German camp as well as the headset radios, crappy though they are, are completely my invention. Yes yes it's lazy research, but what can I say? I'm in it for the story-telling. I adore history and I want this to be as accurate as possible, but is it going to be textbook? No. If I make a /huge/ error, feel free to chew me out, no big deal, I'll go in and fix some stuff and shift around until it's better. But..as for the radios? Come on. I'm just gonna forestall all y'all's arguments by saying that Sherlock built them and installed them because Sherlock is a genius. Ta-da. Also, I'd prefer it if you guys would chew me out in private rather than in the comments, please and thank you, so feel free to message me on my writing blog which is eleanorfenyxwrites.tumblr.com, where, once I get some followers, I'll kind of tell you guys what I'm up to and why I'm not posting chapters and all that jazz, and I'll also keep you up to date on the progress of a new fic that I'm writing that I won't publish until it's completely finished. So. Sorry about the huge paragraph. But yeah, don't forget: eleanorfenyxwrites.tumblr.com if you want to hear some good stuffies from time to time about my stories and see some of my non-fic writings as well. Yeah? Okay good.
> 
> p.s. Don't forget to comment, leave kudos, bookmark, subscribe..whatever you want to do to let me know how you feel about this chapter. Ta.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy historical fiction as much as I do because this was tons of fun to write and I'm seriously looking forward to doing so much more with this story. But to help me do that, I'm going to be needing some feedback from you lot :) I'd love to hear your thoughts on the work so don't be afraid to leave a comment for me, I love hearing from you guys. I hope you liked it and I hope you stick with the story, it's going to get pretty good if I do say so myself :)


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